"Mrs Pocock will probably be ready herself to answer any enquiry you may put to her.

But," he continued, "BUT--!" He faltered on it.
"But what?
Don't put her too many ?" Waymarsh looked large, but the harm was done; he couldn't, do what he would, help looking rosy.

"Don't do anything you'll be sorry for." It was an attenuation, Strether guessed, of something else that had been on his lips; it was a sudden drop to directness, and was thereby the voice of sincerity.

He had fallen to the supplicating note, and that immediately, for our friend, made a difference and reinstated him.
They were in communication as they had been, that first morning, in Sarah's salon and in her presence and Madame de Vionnet's; and the same recognition of a great good will was again, after all, possible.

Only the amount of response Waymarsh had then taken for granted was doubled, decupled now.